


The Light of Distant Skies

by lindmere, merisunshine36



Series: The Light of Distant Skies [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Star Trek: AOS, light of distant skies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>16.45 years after Vulcan's destruction, the last light from Vulcan shines on an Earth on the verge of war, and on Starfleet officers facing decisions on whether to confront the enemy or seek out new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light of Distant Skies

_Date: Saturday, July 25, 2274_  
Time: 0952, Pacific Standard Time  
Location: San Francisco, CA, Earth  
Starfleet Academy, Newton Buiding 

 

Winona Kirk smoothes her uniform and brushes back her hair, which in more than sixty years has never learned to behave.

She spots a tall figure on a balcony above the atrium, silhouetted by the early morning light. Even without the long, slightly iridescent robes, it is unmistakable.

Winona thinks that she should hurry up to meet him before she's spotted, then assures herself that there's no need to be nervous. She's met Sarek at least a dozen times over the years, and he seems to respect her abilities, as she respects his. She's always found Vulcans easy to work with, easier in many ways than humans. The sense of constantly being judged that her colleagues complain about has never bothered her. She attributes it to insecurity, a feeling Winona is a stranger to, at least where work is concerned.

Plenty of other people have doubted her, which is why it's surprising, exciting, and suspicious that she's been given this mission--the most important of her checkered career. This morning's meeting is a referendum on the mission, but it's hard not to feel that it's a judgment on her as well.

She gives a final tug on her tunic and runs quickly up the stairs. Sarek is there to greet her at the top. He takes her hand lightly and bows over it, a gallant Human gesture, a tribute, Winona thinks, to infrequent but cordial meetings over the years and the close relationship of their sons.

"It's good to see you again, Councilor Sarek. Please let me offer my condolences again on the loss of the Lady Sahn'pel." It's been more than two years since the death of Sarek's second wife, in Winona's experience a uniquely difficult time; she's not sure if the infallibility of Vulcan memory makes it better or worse.

"Thank you, Commander." Sarek seems genuinely appreciative. "It is fortunate that the loss to my family has been balanced in some respects by a recent addition."

Winona smiles a little uncertainly. She'd heard that Sarek had a hand in engineering the plural marriage of his only son to Saiehnn, a young Vulcan instructor at the Academy, but the details surrounding that particular match are a mystery. Sarek may approve of only one of Spock's mates, but if so, which one?

"I am most grateful that you agreed to lead this mission, Commander. In addition to the many medical and logistical challenges, it has been a matter of some controversy on New Vulcan."

"So I've heard." And indeed she has—a series of blistering video messages from New Vulcan's leading obstetrician, as well as the more diplomatic expressions of concern from the High Council and some members of the Federation Commission on New Vulcan.

"I regret that we lack the unity of purpose that once allowed us to accomplish scientific projects of great scope. At such times I particularly appreciate the leadership and boldness shown by certain members of Starfleet, among whom I include you, Commander."

Winona inclines her head a little, accepting what is a great compliment. She thinks how humiliating it must be for Vulcan civilization, once a beacon to the galaxy, to be a supplicant, dependent on Federation aid, its internal squabbles and grievances on public display. It may be less so for Sarek, whose admiration for human culture has given the Federation not one but two of its most famous citizens.

"Can I assume that your opinion hasn't changed, then? I wouldn't be comfortable with this plan in any case if I didn't believe it had your support. But I really don't want any surprises this morning." It's a suitably Vulcan understatement. The discreetely named Subcommittee on Population is acrimonious on ordinary days, let alone when debating final approval on a controversial project.

"Indeed it has not. The more I reflect on the political ramifications, the more convinced I am that it is the correct decision. Neither the Federation nor the Romulans are prepared for all-out war, but both are militarizing rapidly. A stable, populous New Vulcan will do a great deal to redress the current imbalance."

"I'm relieved to hear you say that, Councilor."

From below comes a steadily building murmur as the subcommittee members and their guests filter, unhurried, into the commission chamber, coffee cups clinking, the background noise of Starfleet bureaucracy.

To her surprise, Sarek holds out an arm to her, a ghost of a smile on his face. "As I know your motives are unblemished, Commander, you have my full support. And now, as I believe the Standard phrase has it, it is time for the show."

++

 

_Time: 1011 hours  
Location: Officer's Barracks, South Campus_

Uhura peers into the hallway outside of the bedroom for a third time only to find that the door panel is still sealed shut. Saiehnn, the young girl who volunteered to be the bearer of Spock's children, has locked herself into the bathroom for unknown reasons that have now occupied her for the last hour. Uhura is supposed to meet Chris Chapel for coffee before she leaves at 1200 hours to present a paper at the Federation Council on Endocrinology's annual conference in Paris. But at this rate, Chris will have left and returned before Uhura even gets to brush her teeth.

She plucks her robe from the back of the chair where she'd tossed it earlier and cinches it tight around her waist before stepping out into the narrow hallway and crossing the short distance to the bathroom door. The apartment is a utilitarian affair assigned to them by Starfleet, notable only for its clean lines, drab colors, and complete lack of personality. Uhura hates it, but Spock didn't think it would be logical to rent out another place in the three months they plan to be on Earth before shipping out again.

"Saiehnn," she calls softly, "are you okay in there?" Uhura wonders if she's having the Vulcan equivalent of a panic attack--she's usually in and out in under twenty minutes before setting off to her lab or to one of the few classes she teaches. Saiehnn is as even-keeled as they come, but Uhura has a sneaking suspicion that immense weight of the role she's signed up for must be a bit overwhelming sometimes.

The silence on the other side of the door grows larger as the seconds pass. Uhura starts to wonder if she should use one of the emergency overrides to force the door when it slowly slides open.

To Uhura's immense relief, Saiehnn seems whole and unharmed—with the exception of her hair. It's a storm cloud of flyaways and tangles ending somewhere past the rigid set of her shoulders. She winds a strand around her long fingers and looks at it disdainfully.

"Prior to her death, my eldest sister T'Pring took responsibility for the care and maintenance of my hair. When I first relocated to the colony, I cut it all off—it was illogical to spend time on personal grooming when there was still insufficient food or housing available." Her prominent eyebrows draw together slightly. "Today I require a traditional hairstyle, but the task far exceeds my skill level. This is…a problem."

Uhura bites back a smile. Her own hair is short now, a sleek fall of obsidian ending just below her chin, but she kept it long for many years despite the undeniable fact that it was often a nuisance in the field.

"I have a little bit of experience in the long hair department. May I help?" She holds her hand out for the hairbrush in Saiehnn's hand.

Uhura lets out the little breath she'd been holding when it lands solidly in her palm. For the past month, their relationship with Saiehnn has been cordial, if distant. She trades conversation easily with them at the dinner table, but it hasn't gone beyond that. Uhura is at a bit of a loss as to what to do here—it would have been nice if political unions came with a book of guidelines. Should she stand back and let things happen as they may? Lock her in a bedroom with Spock? Wait for his next pon farr and let it do the talking for them?

"You look lovely with your hair down." Uhura squeezes into the cramped bathroom and begins damage assessment. Saiehnn is uncommonly tiny for a Vulcan, the result of growing up on meager rations shipped in by Starfleet until the colony had the resources to produce food from a standard Vulcan diet. The bulk of what made it in was engineered for alien physiology and difficult to digest.

"I know," she replies. Uhura can't help but laugh a little at her frank acceptance of her own assets.

Saiehnn points to the PADD resting on the edge of the sink, currently set to an instructional video on traditional Vulcan hairstyles. "Here—I found this in the cultural archives. It will help you."

They pass the next few minutes in silence, Uhura pinning up various sections of Saiehnn's dark hair and frowning at the video as Saiehnn sits patiently. Eventually, it starts to look less like a nest of tribbles and more like the stylized work of art showcased by the vid model.

They are neither friends nor lovers, but it's a strangely intimate moment. The small room leaves no space between them, and Uhura can feel the heat radiating from the young girl's body. The rasp of the hairbrush plays a steady counterpoint to the cadence of the voice on the video. At one point Saiehnn's eyes drift shut, and she begins to lean backwards until Uhura gently pushes her upright again.

"Saiehnn," Uhura begins hesitantly, "why did you agree to this? I admit, I can't imagine why such a talented young woman would agree to put her life on hold to satisfy the political whims of the old guard."

"It was necessary." There's the tiniest tightening in her shoulders when Uhura encounters a particularly stubborn snarl. "Spock is a figurehead--a legend, even. The traditionalists want as many Vulcan children as possible, and they would not have approved of his having offspring without the benefit of the marriage bond."

Uhura thinks of the sour-faced officiants that presided over her own ceremony, and she can't help but agree.

"And why make things more difficult for yourself if you don't have to?" Uhura mutters, half to herself.

"Your assessment is correct. I have already given to the colony in other ways—construction, my work with the cultural archives and healers—this is not a hardship. And…I find your company agreeable."

Uhura tries to parse what Saiehnn really means by _agreeable_, and fails. It's easy for her to read Spock at this point, but Saiehnn is a blank slate. "I always suspected that Spock might be asked to take a Vulcan wife at some point. So don't worry that I'll wake up one morning and forcibly eject you from the apartment."

"Worry is one of your human emotions," is her automatic reply. Uhura suspects that she uses this defense often now that she's immersed in life on Earth.`

"I know, but I'm just saying—we're here to support you, okay?"

Saiehnn makes a pained face at Uhura's overtly sentimental testimony. Uhura just rolls her eyes, and reaches for more of the creme Saiehnn uses to conquer the strands of hair continually bent on escape. Apparently, some things never change.

+++

 

_Location: Founder's Walk, Central Campus  
Time: 1224 hours_

"Oof," grunts Pavel. A long-legged blur dressed in cadet reds catches him on the shoulder while barreling across the quad to their next class. Pavel is about to lose his battle with gravity and end up with a shirtful of hot coffee but for Sulu, who hauls him back into an upright position.

"Watch it there, will ya?"

Even in his ratty gardening clothes, Hikaru commands enough authority that the cadet shrinks backward, an embarrassed expression on his sweat-flushed face.

"Sorry, dude, it was like you came out of nowhere," the kid replies.

"It's nothing." Pavel reclaims his arm, scowling.

Obnoxious cadets are the sixth item on his list of reasons why he hates being back in San Francisco. Positions one through five are occupied by the admirals who sit on the search committee that rejected his application to become chair of the stellar cartography department, despite having more publications to his name at age 33 than most of the department has at 50.

"Still got that rejection on your mind?" asks Hikaru. He's always had this unique ability to reach into Pavel's brain and pull out the one topic he wants to discuss the least. It would be touching, if it weren't annoying as hell.

"No," Pavel lies, and continues to drown his sorrows in a pool of scalding hot caffeine.

They resume their stroll across campus, careful to avoid any more run-ins with guided cadet missiles. Pavel is enjoying their morning outing; the _Enterprise_ is up for a refit and the bridge crew have all been occupied with meetings and interviews scheduled by admirals eager to get their hands on them while they're back on Earth. Until Hikaru showed up at Pavel's door this morning, insisting that they go for brunch and a trip to the campus gardens, Pavel hadn't seen much of him at all.

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. You know these things are all about politics."

"I never wanted to be stuck in an office on Earth, anyway."

"But you said--"

"I only did it because you said it was time that I moved on. _At some point, you'll have to hang up your phaser for good, Pavel. You're not 17 anymore, Pavel_."

"It was just a suggestion! You don't _have_ to go anywhere. I mean, look at Scotty. He'll be sticking with the _Enterprise_ until she's a heap of scrap metal set to be repurposed into replicator parts. I don't think he's left spacedock since we got back to Earth."

Pavel's been on a starship since he was 17. The dull clang of his boots against the deck plating and the smell of recycled oxygen make him feel at home. But extended shore leave means there's no one to beam him back in three days to the comforting familiarity of his quarters and a lab space where no one can touch anything without his permission.

"If the captain is promoted, I'll practically be homeless."

Hikaru pulls back, his brown eyes wide. "Wait, you know something about that?"

"Hikaru, if you would just pull your head out of the dirt for once--"

"And by that you mean, hacking through multiple security clearances to get into other people's messages?"

"A technicality," Pavel says, waving away Hikaru's concern. "But yes, the odds are very high that the next time Kirk leaves Earth, it won't be on the _Enterprise_. They want her out in the Neutral Zone."

"Romulus." He comes to a halt. "Shit. I was hoping it wouldn't come to that. What are they gonna do with Kirk?"

Pavel shrugs. "I don't know. Fleet Admiral Gupta's password changes every hour and I didn't feel like figuring out the next one so I could keep reading."

"Well, are you committed? If you re-up for another five, they're going to want you out on the front lines. You're one of their best navigators."

A tug on his sleeve steals Chekov's thoughts away. He glances down and sees that someone has splintered off from the teeming cadet horde and is trying to get his attention.

"Hey! Astronomy Club's hosting a final viewing of Vulcan, tonight at 2000 hours. You'll be there, right?" The words spin past his ears so quickly that he barely understands what is being said.

The speaker is an Orion female, first or second year cadet most likely, her dark hair styled in a short pixie cut that highlights her cheekbones. She smiles and for a moment, looks so much like Gaila that he forgets out how to speak.

Hikaru gives her an answering grin. "You were saying something about a viewing?"

She bounces on the balls of her feet, excited that someone has taken the time to slow down and listen to her spiel. "We're broadcasting a live feed of the light from Vulcan as it disappears from Earth's skies. You know, to honor those who were lost. I was in charge of advertising--I put a retrospective vid up on the network in honor of Commander Chekov. It's called, _Young Pioneers in the Field of Combat: How One Russian Whiz Kid Saved the Life of the Federation's most Celebrated Captain_." The look in her eyes is unfocused and a bit dreamy. "I can't believe he was assigned to his first deep space mission at seventeen!"

Chekov peers at Hikaru from the corner of his eye, only to find that his face is going through a series of painful contortions as Hikaru tries to decide whether he wants to acknowledge the gravity of the event or their ridiculous advertising scheme.

"Tell me, how can I acquire a copy of this film? _I_ am Pavel Chekov."

The Orion girl's pink mouth softens into a skeptical frown. "Right, townie. And I discovered the intermix equation."

He's about to call her out on her blatant insubordination until he remembers that he's in civvies today.

"Fine, forget it."

The feeling of Hikaru's hand on his shoulder stalls him as he's trying to walk away. "Come on, don't leave. She didn't mean anything by it."

Against his better judgment he turns back, only to feel his blood pressure begin to rise at the sympathetic expression in her dark eyes. "Sorry, we get a lot of tourists this time of year. But, seriously? You meet the commonly accepted standards for attractiveness among your race—you don't have to lie to get my attention."

"But I wasn't…"

"Just show up and maybe I'll let you take me out for coffee afterward, okay?" She deftly plucks his communicator from where it's tucked into his front pocket and begins paging through the menus until she finds the notepad function. He doesn't bother telling her that he's not interested, because it's not likely she'd believe that, either.

"Don't be late. We're starting exactly on time!" Her parting words are accompanied by a little wave as she runs off to snare her next unsuspecting target.

"Woo! Hot date," Hikaru crows, his face red with laughter.

"Hikaru, I will kill you one of these days. You will step into a transporter beam, and never be seen again."

"Right. So when are you going tell her that you're a celebrity?"

 

++++

 

_Location: Starfleet Medical  
Time: 1327 hours_

It takes Winona more than half an hour to track down Leonard McCoy. The _Enterprise_ crew has scattered to the winds during the three-month refitting--to home and family, briefly, and then back to Starfleet, which is never short on ways to occupy them.

She finds him in the Xenopathology Lab, suited up, wearing goggles and on the other side of an airlock, but Winona would know those expressive eyes anywhere. He gives her a wave and comms that he'll be out in 10 minutes.

He emerges stripped down to blue scrubs, head bare and revealing a new spattering of gray at his temples. He accepts her hug and kiss on the cheek with the bemused combination of best-friend's-mom and not-that-much-older-woman that's been between them for more than a decade. She loves all of Jim's bridge crew, but none more than Leonard, who shares both her idealism about the mission and her cynicism about the bureaucracy.

"Jim said you were coming to town, but I didn't expect to see you so soon. Can I buy you lunch?" It's a gentle joke, since meals are free to all personnel.

"I'd like that. Maybe the sushi cart in in the Biodome? I'm going to have my fill of white tablecloths in the next few weeks."

"Ah, yes, the joys of a Vulcan committee: locked in a small room with argumentative bastards who eat once a day, sleep four hours a night, and never met a four-dimensional scatter plot they didn't like." She laughs and lets him lead the way, already feeling some of the tension from the morning leave her neck and shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later, they're sharing a small table under the bobbing fronds of a Circassian fig tree. Winona watches Leonard knock back sashimi and green tea with the efficiency of someone who's always short on calories, caffeine and time.

"What's up? Jim said you were working with the Commission on New Vulcan, but he didn't say on what."

Winona nibbles at the edge of her hand roll, hesitant. "Well. They've asked me to manage the Teslau Project."

"_Teslau_? That Frankenstein stuff? Don't tell me they're trying to drag you into that!"

Winona's heart sinks. "I see I'm not going to have to beg for your honest opinion."

"Sorry, sorry. I can't comment on the science; I've been up to my eyeballs in Rigellian influenza, and when I'm not in the lab I've got a suspicious number of admirals wanting to take me out to lunch. Anyhow, I haven't had time to review any of the research, but I'm dubious about the motivations. Trying to breed ourselves a bunch of extra Vulcans because we can't manage our own affairs without them is a shitty reason to tinker with a species' physiology and culture."

"But we've done it throughout human history--not always for the best reasons, I'll admit, but zero population growth has been working well for the past two hundred years, and it's hardly the natural state of things."

"_Suppressing_ fertility is simple. Trying to get Vulcan females to have litters like cats is quite another."

She makes a face at the crude metaphor. "It's not _litters_. It's more frequent, and more frequently multiple, births. You know that, and that kind of talk doesn't help matters."

Leonard arches an eyebrow, trying to get a smile out of her. "I'm sorry, but we don't get to decide when we're animals and when we're higher-order beings. I know that Vulcans act like they crap rainbows, but believe me, they're mammals like the rest of us. And there's a lot about their evolutionary history, as well as their biology, that we don't know and they don't either."

"The clinical trials have been going on for more than a year, and they've been as rigorous as can be expected, considering the short time line and the limited number of Vulcans available. Leonard, you have to know that I wouldn't be involved if I thought there were any danger to individual women or to Vulcan society as a whole."

"Well, of course not," he says, almost in reproach. "But controlled experiments can't tell you what the effects are going to be over a few years or a few generations. Humans are adaptable; Vulcans aren't. They're a transplant species, possibly specifically designed for the monoenvironmental planet they were introduced to--a planet that, by the way, they're not living on any more. Maybe we should take the lower birthrate on New Vulcan and the bumper crop of new diseases as a hint to slow down, not an invitation to artificially increase the birthrate."

"So we do what--let Vulcan civilization dwindle away to nothing?" Winona puts down her _o-hashi_, losing her appetite. She'd expected--and gotten--a long disquisition on Vulcan physiology and cultural traditions, heavy on skepticism of Federation research, from the Vulcan science commissioners. She didn't expect Leonard's bald and seemingly knee-jerk appeal to nature and destiny.

"Of course not. But there's a big, huge planet full of healthy Romulans, fully hybridizable with Vulcans, and very capable of acting as surrogates."

"Leonard! You're not a Reunificationist?"

Leonard raises his hands in self-defense. "I stay as far away from politics as I can, but when you've got a thriving, populous Empire with plenty of planets left to settle, it sure as hell seems like the path of least resistance compared to trying to artificially goose the Vulcan population on some bumfuck hinterland planet."

"Of course." Winona sips her half-cold tea, which seems more astringent than usual. "With the minor problem that we're on the verge of war with the Romulans. Nothing would make them happier than finding out it could take Vulcan a hundred years or more to reemerge as a galactic power."

"I'm sorry, but that seems a lot more fixable to me than fundamentals of biology and culture. Hell, what do I know? I'm just a doctor. People come to me _after_ they break things; they're usually not interested in my opinion on how not to break them in the first place."

"Present company excepted."

Leonard inclines his head. "And I appreciate it. If you were looking for advice, that's probably not what you wanted to hear. At least you listened, unlike some Starfleet officers I could mention."

"Don't fail to mention them on my account." They trade a smile; Winona gets a flash of white teeth and a reminder that Leonard can be a charming man when he tries to be.

"Tell you what--share a dish of ice cream with me and I'll be happy to complain about them in detail, starting with your son. Speaking of which, where's he been? Jo's club is having a thing tonight. The S.O.B. said he'd put in an appearance, and I haven't heard boo from him in the last couple of days."

"Wrapped up in meetings, so he says. All anybody fucking does around here is sit in meetings." Leonard grins back at her. "And yes, I curse--don't look so pleased about it. The further away I get from this rock the more of it I do. Just one of the reasons I can't wait to get back into space."

Leonard excuses himself and comes back a few minutes later with a dish, two spoons, and a cup of black coffee. It's the kind of easy collegiality she's enjoyed on space stations, and has so rarely felt here. She wonders if it's something she'll experience with her new team, who are going to be more than half Vulcan and working on the Vulcan Science Academy campus.

"So what about you? Sticking with the _Enterprise_, or hoping for the _Excelsior_?"

He rolls his eyes skyward. "God bless the 'Fleet rumor mill. No, I don't get excited at the prospect of shinier toys. And heading into the Neutral Zone? I don't know. It might be time to go somewhere quiet and collect that generous Starfleet pension. Somewhere they've never heard of transporters or warp drives or Romulans."

She nods, not believing him. Leonard's oft-spoken desire to be a country doctor is no different than her daydreams of being a farmer in Iowa, and she guesses both fantasies begin with telling the Admiralty to shove it.

Winona takes a spoonful of ice cream, so cold and sweet it makes her teeth ache. "When you find that place, send me a postcard."

 

+++

 

_Location: Officers' Quarters, South Campus  
Time: 1445 hours_

"Spock!" Uhura calls out to him from the doorway of the the apartment as she tries to kick off her shoes and balance the load she's carrying at the same time. Her face is obscured by an enormous burst of dahlias in orange, white, and a deep midnight blue that only occurs under the influence of skilled lab technicians. She's picked them up at the little flower stall nearby in an effort to brighten up the place a bit, and now she can't go any further than their makeshift study without dropping them or the PADD that's tucked beneath her arm.

Spock smoothly removes the flowers from her grasp, his fingers briefly pressing against hers. The shirt he's wearing is open at the neck, and she smiles to herself a little—he never would have caught himself in such a casual state of undress when they first met.

"I do not understand the purpose of purchasing floral decorations that will simply die in a matter of days," he says by way of greeting.

She counters the familiar argument with, "I like them, and that's all you need to understand."

Uhura can't resist bringing her hands up to play with the edges of his open collar, and is pleased to find that after all these years, the simple gesture still makes the tips of his ears take on a faint olive hue.

Her smile slips a bit when she notices the files currently being projected in the study: charts, graphs, diagrams, and all of it containing information about Vulcan fertility. She brushes past him into the room, and spends a moment skimming the endless streams of data.

"This is all information on the Teslau Project, isn't it?" She turns to face him; the bluish light of the projection is distorted by the gentle curvature of her cheekbones. "Don't tell me you're seriously considering this as an option."

Spock carefully sets the flowers down on the desk and folds his hands behind his back. "The likelihood of existing technology or...traditional methods resulting in successful conception with Saiehnn is 13.27 percent. We must take every option into consideration."

Uhura knows she shares her bed not only with Spock, but the phantom presence of Vulcan societal opinion. The question of how they'll react has dogged their every step--from Spock's choosing a post on the _Enterprise_ over the colony, to Uhura's decision to focus on her career instead of taking a leave of absence to go through the endless rounds of hormone therapy required for her to have children.

"I hate when you talk about it like that." She wraps her arms around herself and peers at the information onscreen. She can't focus; the words and numbers all swim together in front of her eyes.

"You know that I value your opinion, Nyota." He stands close behind her, and she finds some solace in the warm press of his body against her back.

"I know this isn't just about us, or Saiehnn even. But still..."

He pulls up another screen for her. "Current research shows the hormone therapy to be both safe and effective in producing more frequent conception in the Vulcan female, including multiple births."

Uhura shakes her head in refusal. "This is all untested science we're talking about here. We don't know anything about the long term consequences of any of this. Saiehnn is only 28...don't you think we should wait?"

His long fingers move quickly across the surface of one of the PADD screens and one by one, the diagrams disappear from view.

"She has passed through her first pon farr and is fully capable of carrying a child to term. Remember that I was also the result of genetic experimentation—there can be no reward without risk."

"Spock!" She turns so abruptly that there is a soft tinkling from the tiny silver chains looped through her ears. Her nails cut sharply into the skin of her palms as she tries to rein in her anger. "This is Saiehnn we're talking about, not some project in one of your labs. She's your—she's _our_ wife."

A firm knock on the door frame steals their attention, and they both turn to find Saiehnn in the doorway, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She's taken great care with her hair all day, and every strand sits as firmly in place as when they finished it some hours ago. The height of the somewhat archaic style shows off the graceful length of her neck, which is covered by the stiff collar of her dress. Spock's recalcitrant expression softens a bit when he sees her standing there, a lyre tucked beneath one arm.

"You arguments are irrelevant, as they are based on inaccurate data." She pauses for a moment, gathering her words. "I began the hormone treatments prior to your arrival on Earth."

Spock can't quite control the slight downturn of his mouth. "You did not inform us prior to making your decision, Saiehnn."

"I did not wish for anyone to try and stop me." She raises her chin slightly so that she's looking him directly in the eye. "My classmates perished as the walls in our school fell upon them. My family is gone, and our elders still ask for death so that they might be relieved from the burden of their memories. The current birthrate would have us become extinct in less than three centuries. If I wish to see the survival of my race--then I do not believe it was ever my decision to make."

"Saiehnn, we apologize." Uhura's heart can't help but twist a bit in this moment. Saiehnn reminds her so much of herself at that age. "We shouldn't have been discussing this without you."

"I understand—your human emotions cloud your judgment." She adjusts the instrument so that it rests more securely beneath her arm. "My purpose in coming was to inform you that I am performing this evening at an event in commemoration of the loss of Vulcan. As my husband and wife, your presence is required."

Without waiting for an answer, she turns to leave, flashes of gold embroidery peeking out from the coffee-colored skirts of her robes.

Stunned, Uhura turns to her partner. "I think we've just been given an order."

He looks down at her, a single raised eyebrow indicating his amusement. "Commander Uhura, I agree with your assessment—and I anticipate that this will not be the last time."

 

+++

_Location: Cochrane Hall, Admiral Pike's office  
Time: 1502 hours_

Darcy spots Pike's visitor before he does, lifting her old white head and pointing her nose toward the door.

"How's my good girl?" Kirk bends down to run a hand between her ears and she thumps her tail a few times against the rug, something she doesn't do for many people anymore. It's been years since she's been a working service dog, even more since Pike has needed her to be, but the thought that she won't be with him forever makes his chest ache. She's been part of his life almost as long as the man staring at him from across his desk with bright, shrewd blue eyes.

"I've already had lunch and I approved those subspace driver coils you requisitioned, so I'm going to assume this is about something else." Kirk just raises an eyebrow. "Fine. You're here about the mission to Vulcan."

"Is it partial bullshit or complete bullshit?"_ Well_, Pike thinks, _that didn't take long_. He wonders who spilled the 'Fleet's best-kept secret, and how badly he or she has underestimated Kirk.

"The science? I have no idea. The project is legit, if that's what you're asking. Maybe they hurried it along by a month or six, but the New Vulcan Commission is quite serious. They want the population doubled in 20 years."

"And they're sending me on a _science mission_ while Earth is on a heightened security alert?" Kirk crosses and uncrosses his legs impatiently, an old habit.

Pike knows part of the Admiralty's position and can guess the rest. He shouldn't be telling Kirk, but that's the least of his worries. He doesn't know how he can tell this man, whose first act in the captain's chair was to save the Earth, that he's being forced out of it. Another two months and they may have this in common: they'll be desk jockeys and ex-captains of the _Enterprise_. Whether Kirk can survive that personally is one question; whether the Federation can is another.

"It's a nice day," Pike says, even though it isn't. "Why don't we take a walk?" Kirk gets it, of course; he's out of the chair and fidgeting by the door before Pike can engage his anti-grav device to lever himself to a standing position.

Darcy hauls herself to her feet, fanning her tail, still game to answer the call of duty. Pike guesses she's the only one who's going to enjoy this walk.

"So this mission to New Vulcan gets me out of the way while they move their pieces around? Decker gets the _Enterprise_, Al-Sania gets the _Excelsior_, and I get to sit behind a desk listening to complaints from assholes like me?"

Kirk is handling the news better than Pike expected, but then maybe he's in shock. Pike knows the feeling.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. And promotion to admiral isn't exactly the scrap heap of history."

"It is when all the action's going on in the Romulan system."

"You'll be in charge of the exploratory and science missions. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Pike knows that's not at all what Kirk wanted, but he's making a point.

"I don't know _what_ I want, except that it's not war with Romulus. And I don't want the Enterprise turned into a battleship. And my crew--I've got to let them know. If they sign on--"

"You can't tell anyone, Jim. They're smart enough to manage their own careers. Starfleet's not like some ancient army--not yet, anyway. They can resign or put in for transfer if they don't like it."

Kirk gives a huff and shoves his hands into his pockets. The sun's gone in and taken the warmth with it: appropriate. It's the second time he's told Kirk about a promotion on these very grounds, and the chafing lack of optimism this time around has little to do with the loss of youth.

"This is a political battle, and I suck at politics."

"Yeah, but you're good at _not losing_. You decide what you want to do, and let me know how I can help."

A corner of Kirk's mouth tugs up, the closest thing Pike has seen to a smile out of him in weeks. "Maybe you can send me beyond subspace comm range again?"

Pike snorts and pats him on the shoulder and watches him stride off in the direction of the Sciences Quad.

A chilly gust sweeps across the campus and Darcy whines, eager to get moving. As Pike heads back to his office he sees a few cadets setting up some kind of science project on the lawn. Another is headed toward him carrying a stack of boxes with a PADD resting precariously on top. It starts to slide off, and Pike speeds up to intercept it, catching it just as it breaks free.

"Oh, crap--thanks!" The cadet pauses to shift her load, not looking at him. "Tuck that under my arm, okay?" Pike does so, amused, as a lock of black hair falls in her eyes and she tries to toss her head without dropping everything. "Hey, you should come tonight, at 2000 hours we're going to--Admiral!"

"Cadet." He's afraid she's going to try to stand at attention, so he adds, "What's going on later? You can tell me while we walk."

It turns out she's only going as far as the lawn. She plunks the stack of boxes onto a table, and Pike sees that they're marked _SAAAC_.

"You're with some student organization?"

"Yes, sir. I'm president of the Academy's Amateur Astronomy Club. Linh Sullivan." She points at a thin-film display draped over the table, _Vulcan's Last Light_ shimmering across it in blue and silver. A number appears Pike's mind: 16.45, the number of light years from Earth to Vulcan. You were an eyewitness, weren't you, sir?"

"Not really, no." He doesn't feel like telling this earnest student exactly what he was doing at the time.

She looks curious, but only nods. "Maybe you'd consider coming anyway, sir? The Vulcan Student Association is participating. Professor Saiehnn's going to play the Vulcan lyre. And, uh, we'll have cupcakes." She finishes with a sheepish smile, and Pike smiles back at her.

"Cupcakes, you say? Darcy would like that, wouldn't you, girl? Well, I can't promise, but I'll see what I can do, Cadet."

"Thank you, sir!" A few moments later--long enough, she must figure, for an old man to get out of earshot--he hears her yell, "Hey, Jo! Looks like your dad won't be the only celebrity here tonight!"

+++

 

_Location: Baker Beach  
Time: 1530 hours_

By 1530, the sun is breaking through the clouds, auroral sheets of light illuminating the slight whitecaps in the bay. Baker Beach is nearly deserted, the morning's chilly fog having chased off all but a few runners and dog-walkers. It's a public beach, but close enough to Starfleet that the sight of a uniformed officer and a robed Vulcan attracts no stares.

Winona had surprised herself by suggesting the beach walk; Sarek had surprised her by accepting. What she needs to discuss is awkward at best, inflammatory at worst, and highly personal to boot. It seems easier to be moving, and at least she doesn't have to look directly into Sarek's eyes.

"I don't understand. You expressed no such reservations this morning. Has new research come to light?"

Winona shakes her head, a little angry with herself. Sarek's question is a polite reminder that he supported Federation policy--supported her--through the long morning, even though he holds no official position that requires him to. It was rash, running to Sarek before she'd had a chance to formulate a reasoned argument.

"No. But I looked back through the subcommittee minutes over the past six months. Federation support for the Teslau project has been consistent and heavily skewed in one direction."

"Toward the more militarily inclined of your colleagues." Sarek seems as serenely unconcerned as ever, but then he wasn't a diplomat for nothing.

"Under the circumstances, the Federation's motives for wanting the project to proceed can hardly be pure."

At that, Sarek smiles faintly. "You hold us to higher standards than we do ourselves. I ask you, what would constitute a selfless motive in this case? The desire to restore Vulcan without profiting the Federation? To fulfill the desires of individuals, without benefiting the whole?" Sarek stops, and turns toward her. "Commander, I say this with the greatest respect for your mental faculties and your conscience, but the arguments you heard this morning against the Teslau Project were but a shadow of those that have been underway on New Vulcan for many months. The truth is that our civilization is dying--not from lack of resources, but lack of progress. Our energies are wholly devoted to preserving the memory of what we had, trying to revive institutions that grow less relevant with each passing day. If Vulcan culture is to move forward, it requires a new generation, one not in thrall to the past but one open to the possibilities of the future."

Winona drops her head and looks at where her booted heel makes a furrow in the soft sand. "The first lesson of being a parent. It hadn't occurred to me that it applies to planets as well."

"It is a unique gift of humanity, this eternal optimism concerning change. We have a great deal to learn."

Winona looks into Sarek's deeply etched face and sees a reflection of her own. To others, she supposes, it looks like wisdom, but in her own mind she's as young and uncertain as ever when it comes to decisions that affect other people's lives.

"But it's humanity that's always looking for eternal youth."

"Yes, exactly." Sarek holds out his hands, palms raised, as if he's just proved a point to a particularly hard-headed opponent.

Winona throws her head back and laughs, feeling the wind catch in her hair. She's eager to continue the walk, to keep the Presidio at her back and Sarek beside her for a while longer. When she takes a step her boots scrunch into the sand again.

"Oh, the hell with it." She bends down to unfasten them, and Sarek offers a steadying arm. The sand feels wonderful between her toes, cool and moist. "I don't suppose you have a scientific interest in harbor seals, Sarek?"

He inclines his head and smiles faintly. "The phenomenon of marine mammals is a novel one to me."

Winona knows a Vulcan _yes_ when she hears it. "Let's walk a little further down the beach, then."

+++

 

_Location: South Campus, Sciences Quad  
Time: 1715 hours_

Jim Kirk walks with an abbreviated version of his usual long strides, perhaps because he has nowhere to go. The meeting that he is about to miss is in the opposite direction. Spock, too, has many obligations this afternoon, but has already decided to forgo them in the hope that Jim will share whatever is on his troubled mind.

They walk without speaking, but never in silence. Jim communicates clearly that he is gravely concerned about something, something with serious consequences beyond his own desires or career. Spock indicates, by his posture and the angle of his head, that he is more than willing to listen but will not force the issue, as he understands that there are things that Jim must keep in confidence.

For weeks, the campus has been humming with gossip concerning Starfleet's long-delayed decisions on the captaincy of its two most important vessels. Spock has heard a theory that Kirk will be left in command of the _Enterprise_ to exploit his singular tactical gifts, and another that he will be moved to the new flagship, the Excelsior. He has heard it claimed, in whispers, that Kirk will be given command of the whole fleet. Kirk himself has not lobbied in any direction, preferring to expend his political capital on the increasingly unpopular cause of peace with Romulus. It is apparent to Spock that what will make Jim happiest is also what will make him most successful, but Jim has not actually asked for Spock's opinion.

"Hey." Jim points in the direction of the Bluffs Trail. "Isn't that Sarek?"

Jim is quite correct; the shape of his head and the lines of his surcoat are plain even at this distance.

"Yes. And he appears to be with your mother."

Jim pulls up short and squints. Dr. McCoy has been insisting he receive surgery to correct his vision, but Jim has thus far denied the necessity.

"What are they _doing_?"

"I believe they were both in attendance at this morning's Subcommittee on Population hearings." Spock does not point out that the meeting was held in the Newton building, on the other side of the campus.

"They're walking awful close, don't you think?"

"My father is a social being, by Vulcan standards. He has had little companionship since the death of Sahn'pel."

Kirk shoots him a look of suspicion before turning back to stare at the approaching figures. "Well, he should have plenty to keep him busy when he has a grandkid on the way. Not to mention a daughter-in-law--two daughters-in-law? How does that work again?"

"Vulcans do not recognize a difference linguistically between biological and legal kinship. Sarek calls both my wives his daughters. As a purely hypothetical example, if he were to marry your mother, you would be my brother, Nyota your sister, and any children--"

"I get it!" Jim throws up a hand to stop him. "Speaking of Saiehnn, I'd really like to see more of her, as long as we're all here. I've got a couple more meetings to go to, but are the three of you free for a late dinner?"

"Regrettably, we have an obligation at 2000 hours. Saiehnn has agreed to perform on the lyre for a student gathering."

"Not that astronomy club thing?" Spock nods. "Bones was trying to get me to go to that. Jo's an officer of the club." Jim looks less than excited by the prospect. Spock merely waits. "Oh, all right. We'll stay as long as we have to and then get out, okay? Good."

By now, they are in hailing distance of Sarek and Winona, who are deep in conversation and have not seen them. Jim plots a course to intercept.

+++

 

_Location: Cai Xitao Community Gardens  
Time: 1831 hours_

Hikaru leads Pavel down to the hidden corner of campus where the public gardens are located. They're comprised of a series of square plots arranged around the new biodome built a few years back. Pavel gives a low whistle at the soaring arches of the glittering plasteel structure, built with recovery funds from the Federation in a bid to ensure that post-_Narada_, the Academy would remain an attractive option to future recruits.

They spot Kirk and Spock while en route, heads bent together in some intense conversation. Pavel entertains the passing thought that he might pump them for information, but their expressions seemed to discourage it.

Hikaru keys in his code to the little storage shed near the community plots and emerges with two impossibly tiny pairs of shears and an eyedropper.

"Want to help?" he asks, offering them to Pavel. "Today is pruning day."

Pavel's lip curls involuntarily at the thought. "Only if you want them to die."

Sulu shrugs and returns a pair of the shears to its shelf. Pavel follows obediently until they reach a series of hydroponic beds holding a number of plants about six centimeters tall, their delicate purple fronds shivering in the light breeze.

Hikaru's attention is soon focused solely on his charges, his fingers handling them with the same studied intensity as when he's bringing a ship out of spacedock. A shock of dark hair falls into his eyes, evidence that a haircut has fallen to the bottom of his to-do list. After about two minutes, Pavel gets tired of watching and drops to the ground, then pulls out his communicator to check his messages.

A comfortable quiet settles over them, broken only by the chatter of the other occupants of the garden. Pavel has nothing to do at this point, so he just listens to Hikaru work and absentmindedly watches the sun make its steady progress across the sky. His eyes drift shut every now and then as his body focuses on processing the heavily spiced Deltan meal they indulged in for lunch.

"I've been offered a position with Arboritas—the interplanetary seed bank," says Hikaru. His eyes widen a bit in surprise, as if his mouth just acted without permission. "Sorry. I didn't mean to tell you like that."

Pavel blinks sleepily. "But that is good news. Why are you upset?"

"If I accept their offer, I'll have to resign my commission."

Of course. Hikaru can't work for an interplanetary operation and be at the beck and call of Starfleet at the same time. Taking his interest in botany from hobby to profession is something Hikaru always aspired to—Pavel should be happy for him.

But what comes out of his mouth is, "You're leaving me?"

Hikaru turns to look at Pavel, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. "Pavel...I've been looking for a way out for a while now. You've said it yourself--there's a good chance we'll be butting heads with Romulus this time next year, and I don't think I've got another military engagement in me. This is the perfect opportunity to leave with my dignity intact."

"You had time away—you left for three years, to teach." Pavel tries to keep his voice light, but he knows he's failing. He can handle giving up the _Enterprise_ or Hikaru, but not both.

The little vein jumping at the corner of Hikaru's jaw broadcasts his irritation loud and clear. "I'm not you, Pavel, and I'm not Kirk. What if I want a house one day, or a job that doesn't involve brushes with certain death every minute, or a family, even? Not everyone can live on science and adventure alone."

Pavel's eyes narrow in suspicion. "You said the same thing the last time you left."

"Yeah, but this time I'm serious, and I won't let you lure me back with your advanced skills in the art of seduction."

"Tch. I am a scientist. I would never stoop so low."

"We don't have to live in each other's pockets forever to keep being friends," he replies, adding a punch on the shoulder for emphasis. "I'll take that position with Aboritas, and you'll do whatever it is you're going to do. And we'll both be fine."

Pavel sets his communicator on the grass, his face serious."I think...that I will go to the Neutral Zone. If they ask me."

"What?" Hikaru's surprise is written all over his face.

"I hate it down here. It's always, 'Commander Chekov, you can use this lab from 0800-1300 on Tuesday and Thursday only, but not the second Tuesday, when our guest scholars are coming in. Commander Chekov, you are very suited to be chair of this department, but not so much as this man whose company just developed our newest phaser banks. Commander Chekov, we really don't consider it a waste of your time to teach that intro course on non-Federation tracking relays.'" He pauses to catch his breath. "I want my own lab, and to be supervisor of my own department, and I want it to be many light years away from these idiots who haven't spent any time in zero-g since they were in reds."

"Yeah, but...this won't be another exploratory mission, Pavel. This is serious."

"Then they will seriously need someone to keep them in check, correct? And if--if there is a reason we need to be out there, then I want to be involved. You can wait at home with the dog and kids for my triumphant return."

Pavel's comm beeps, and he pulls it out to see the flashing reminder of the memorial viewing.

"That ceremony is starting soon--should we go?" It's a small student event, and there probably won't be many other people there. But all the same, Vulcan's disappearance is not something he necessarily wants to relive.

"I think you'll regret it if you don't."

Hikaru offers Pavel a hand up from his seat on ground. Pavel will never admit it, but after numerous away missions that involved camping in less-than-favorable conditions, his knees aren't quite what they used to be.

The shears are returned to their proper location, and Hikaru spends a moment at the little industrial sink washing the dirt from beneath his fingers. The water is still running long after the last remnants of dirt have swirled down the drain, which makes Pavel worry—more than a decade on a starship tends to make one resource-conscious. Maybe Hikaru hasn't taken his decision so well after all. Pavel reaches for the tap's manual kill-switch, but Hikaru grabs him by the wrist.

"Just be careful out there, okay?" There's a seriousness in his eyes that makes Pavel uncomfortable. "Try not to pull too many heroic stunts while I'm not around to watch your back."

Pavel gently retrieves his hand, and makes his best effort to call up a reassuring smile. "If you were anyone else, I'd point out that I've logged 24 percent fewer hours in sickbay than most officers my age. But since it's you, well--okay. I promise to be careful."

 

+++

 

_ Location: Founder's Walk, Central Campus  
Time:1904 hours_

Winona and Sarek exchange greetings with their own sons and each others' in the Vulcan manner, with inclined heads and knowing smiles. Winona forbears giving Jim a kiss on the cheek.

"James, I am pleased to see you. I anticipated you would be at the Riverside Shipyards."

Jim twitches a little. "No, sir. I have plenty to keep me busy here."

"Indeed. I am not surprised to find all the _Enterprise_ crew making itself useful. For example, you, my son, are serving on the Biocomputing Grant Review Board. Is there a not a meeting at this very moment?"

"Yes, father, but--"

"Then it would be wise for you to proceed there quickly. Professor X'an does not like tardiness." Spock's glance slides from Sarek to Jim and back again. Winona feels sympathy, but not so much that she isn't amused.

"Yes, of course."

"Very good. I will accompany you, as I have matters to discuss with X'an, and she can be exceedingly difficult to locate." Sarek turns and gives a parting bow. "Winona. James. I anticipate our future meetings with pleasure." Winona and Jim bow in turn and watch their retreating backs.

"Since when does Sarek call you 'Winona'?" The way Jim is wrinkling his nose takes twenty years off his face, maybe more.

"We're going to be working closely together. That's a good enough reason, isn't it?"

"So you're going to say yes to Teslau?" He looks away, not before she catches his frown.

"I haven't decided yet, but I'm leaning that way. Why? Have you heard anything bad about it?"

"No, no." The way he adjusts his expression puts her on alert. "You're the right person, of course. I hope they know how lucky they are, after the way they've treated you. Where are we walking, by the way?"

"I don't-- I thought you--"

Jim grins and steers her toward a park bench. The sun has won its battle with the clouds and is shining on the brilliant blue bed of salvia beside them.

"Teslau is controversial as hell, and not just on Vulcan." He stretches out his long legs and tilts his head back, enjoying the warmth. "I hope they offered you something more than the usual generous pension contribution."

Winona is glad for the opening. "Nothing that'll put a new roof on the house, but something they knew I'd like. Jim, Admiral Kansai told me it could be another month before they announce any personnel decisions for the _Excelsior_."

Jim stifles a curse. Winona wraps a hand around his wrist with the easy familiarity of parenthood that never seems to fade.

"I _know_," she says. "The waiting is killing me; I can't imagine what it's doing to you. Well, I have some idea. Instead of just sitting around waiting...you can escort me to New Vulcan. Kansai is quite pleased with his idea, apart from how it pleases me. They're going to send the _Gillani_. I've been on it before. It's a nice ship. And you'd be doing something useful."

"As opposed to what I'm doing here?" The frown returns.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Sending someone of your stature is a mark of respect, and it'll create confidence in the program. The Vulcans like you. And I'll say it again: you could use time away from this place."

"A controversial science mission to a remote planet isn't my idea of R&amp;R, and I doubt the Vulcans would appreciate my thinking of it that way." He scowls and picks at a loose thread in his trousers. Winona wonders for the first time if his gloom over the past few weeks is more than just a heritable dislike of being stuck planetside.

"If you're doing something to benefit others, is it so wrong if it benefits you, too? If that's so, you'll have to blame me for wanting to share this with you. It's creating new life, Jim. Believe me, that counts for something."

"I've never been so glad that Sam decided to have kids early."

She doesn't have to work up much of a glare before Jim's stubbing his heel against the leg of the bench, looking penitent.

"Okay. Okay. I'll definitely consider it. And if I don't go, it'll be because--well, it won't be because I don't trust your advice. You always make me feel better about other people's idiocy."

"Whose idiocy are we talking about? The Admiralty's? You know I don't give you professional advice because I don't know what it's like to be in your position, and I don't have access to the same information you do. But I appreciate the gravity of the decisions you have to make. Coming with me to New Vulcan isn't as important as that."

"But that's the thing--it _should_ be. That's what Starfleet should be doing: using all this science and technology to make things better for living beings. It's turned into this interstellar chess game, and half the time I don't know if I'm a player or one of the pieces."

He rubs his palms together and stares at the ground, and she can see the tension in his shoulders, feel it radiating off him. The part of her that wants to keep him from danger and worry is tempted to beg him to come with her to New Vulcan, but at best it would be a temporary solution.

After a few minutes of watching him from under her lashes, she says, "You busy tonight? Care to buy an old lady dinner?"

"I'd love to, but I've got plans with Spock, and--shit, I've got Jo McCoy's astronomy club thing at 2000. I don't suppose you want to go? It would make Bones happy. Not that you can ever tell."

"_Anyone_ can tell he's happy when Jo's around. It's wonderful they've been able to spend these few months together, before--well, before whatever happens," she concludes, not before Jim's expression has turned dark. "I'd be happy to go, and you should be too." She pats his knee, bony and hard under the gray wool of his uniform pants. "It'll make you feel better, I promise."

Jim squeezes her hand briefly before moving it off his knee and rising slowly to his feet. "I should just save myself trouble and take all your advice." He squints into the sunshine. "Tell you what--I'll go to Jo's thing, but I'll meet you there. I need to stop by Cochrane Hall."

+++

 

_Location: Archer Pavilion, North Campus  
Time: 1945 hours_

 

"Why are there single-use cups? People should know to bring their own cups." Linh frowns at the refreshment table as one of the little cup-towers tips over in the breeze and rolls to a stop at her feet. "I told you we should have rented a tent. Stellar Cartography would've paid for it if we'd asked."

Jo McCoy concentrates on keeping her voice neutral. "I thought we should be prepared for drop-ins, and it's not going to kill us to have to deal with the elements for a while." She doesn't blame Linh for the stress that's adding to her usual obsessive attention to detail. What started as a simple idea to recruit new club members, has turned into the only official memorial for Vulcan on the Academy campus.

Linh is good with instruments but has little talent for people, so this entire event sets her on edge. The Ceremony of Remembrance had been Jo's idea, but they all worked to cobble together the resources necessary to build a space telescope capable of broadcasting an image of Vulcan down here on Earth. From the corner of her eye she notices Oye, their technical officer, introducing Chekov and Sulu to Kileia, a first-year cadet from Orion who's their newest recruit. She's brilliant but as aggressively assertive as all the other overachievers in the club, so Jo is tickled to see that she looks more than a little intimidated.

A moment later she sees her father striding across the quad. It's an incredible luxury having him on campus, and she's been enjoying every moment, dropping by his lab when the mood takes her, asking for his help with homework assignments when the fact is she's doing fine--really well, actually--without him. Sooner or later he'll be flying off, or she will, and she doesn't want to have taken this time for granted.

"Hi, baby girl." She refuses to blush, although Linh looks away. She introduces him around to the other members, and they're trying hard not to look impressed, a sure sign that they are.

"Thanks for coming. Is Captain Kirk going to be here?"

"He said he'd try, but he's got a lot on his plate right now."

"Admiral Pike will be," Linh says, impossible to stop.

"Well, well. We're going to be quite an august crowd. I'd better take a seat while I can. Jo, you let me know if I can do anything for you."

"I will." People are beginning to filter in from all parts of the campus: cadets and professors, as well as a handful of Starfleet bureaucrats.

She turns to see Saiehnn approaching, flanked by Spock and Uhura. Saiehnn wears a dark brown dress with embroidered gold accents in the current Vulcan style, with a barrel-shaped bodice that looks stiff and uncomfortable. It was Jo who first approached Saiehnn about participating in the ceremony. It wasn't difficult; she thinks of the _Enterprise_'s bridge crew as her aunts and uncles, a conceit from childhood she's never quite given up. That makes Saiehnn her aunt by marriage, as well as closer to her age than her father's.

Saiehnn glances at the stage in what might be apprehension, and Uhura wraps a gentle hand around her forearm as Spock hands her the lyre. It makes Jo's heart beat with nervous sympathy, and she almost regrets asking Saiehnn to do something that's bound to bring more unwanted attention. She's already a subject of curiosity--all three of them are, so famous and so attractive by the standards of their species, and with the circumstances surrounding their relationship unusual enough to set Starfleet gossip in motion.

"Saiehnn." Jo keeps her hands folded in front of her, remembering her Vulcan manners, and Saiehnn lowers her head in turn. Joanna sees that her hair is intricately plaited, something that must have taken hours to do. A little voice in her head whispers that she should have done more than just pull her own hair back into a hasty ponytail. "Thank you again for being here. You look--" she meets Saiehnn's dark, glittering eyes and is flustered. "You look beautiful."

"My attire is appropriate for the occasion." She gestures toward the stage. "Do you wish me to be seated?"

"Yes, please. There's Sentek--he's going to read the _Van-Kal t'Vokau_." Sentek is the president of the Vulcan Student Union, and looks quite a bit happier to be the focus of attention than Saiehnn does, if Jo is any judge of Vulcan facial expressions.

Saiehnn simply nods and makes her way to the stage. She stops to exchange a few polite words with Sentek before settling into her chair and focusing on her instrument, a small frown on her face as she turns the tuning pegs back and forth.

"Don't worry," Uhura says quietly, whether to Spock or Joanna, she isn't sure. "She wouldn't be here if she didn't want to do this."

Joanna takes the thought to heart. The concept of Vulcan stoicism strikes her sometimes as a lazy generalization, an excuse not to care about Vulcans' suffering more than they seem to care about it themselves. Joanna was barely six years old at the time of the Destruction, and can't imagine what it must have been like for Saiehnn, who had to be evacuated from her school.

The seats are three-quarters full now, and Joanna recognizes signs of near-panic in Linh as she stage-directs while frantically waving for Oye and Joanna.

"Joanna?" A strong hand catches her arm.

"Commander Kirk!" It's been years since she's seen Jim Kirk's mother--not since the _Enterprise_'s first refitting, when Jim invited the bridge crew and their families to a weekend in Riverside. That's apparently good enough for the commander, who gives her a quick hug before turning her to face her companion.

"Joanna, this is Ambassador Sarek; Sarek, Dr. McCoy's daughter, Joanna. A very promising astronomy student, and I've heard that from more than just your father, so you don't need to give me that look."

Joanna just barely manages to ignore the churning in her stomach so she can stutter out a greeting. _Kirk's mother. Spock's father_.

"Can you please stop socializing and help us?" Linh's voice is low but stinging. "We need more chairs, and Oye's having problems with the telescope signal." The last thing she sees before she's dragged away is the perplexed look on Ambassador Sarek's face as Commander Kirk's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

By the time her chrono shows 2000, there are more than 300 people jammed onto the small square of grass. They've somehow managed to get the faculty and other dignitaries into seats, leaving most of the the students to stand or sprawl on the ground in front of the stage. Saiehnn, Sentek, and the officers of the SAAAC, all nervous to varying degrees, sit in folding chairs on the stage.

When Linh stands to make the introduction, Joanna can see that her hands are shaking. But her voice is firm, reading the words that the prompter floats in front of her eyes, invisible to all but her.

"On Stardate 2258.42, a point of light disappeared from our galaxy--a light of knowledge, and of wisdom. That source of that light is a star that still burns, 16.45 light years from Earth, and the light reflected from that planet continues to travel 15 billion years to the limits of the observable universe. But after tonight it will no longer be visible from the skies of Earth, and so on this occasion we choose to remember what we've lost, as well as what remains here with us: the keepers of the light, the people of Vulcan. I would now like to recognize Sentek, who will read the _Van-Kal t'Vokau_, the Ceremony of Remembrance."

Sentek rises, and Joanna tries to keep as still as possible, though she can see her classmates shifting in their chairs. Aside from an occasional cough or chirp, the audience is silent as early evening settles over the campus. The young Vulcan clears his throat and begins. His voice is deep and flat, speaking the Vulcan words that the translation loop repeats in Joanna's ear in Standard.

"Matter is precipitated out of energy, and only a small part of that matter will ever achieve sentience. It is through us that the universe knows itself, and it is the obligation of every sentient being to contribute to this knowledge, and to help others to achieve understanding. This is our highest purpose--" Sentek stops abruptly and swallows hard. Joanna sees Saiehnn's head jerk up a fraction, and there's a faint murmur in the audience.

"This is the text that I have been asked to read. It instructs us that we should remember the dead for their achievements in life, and recommit ourselves to the pursuit of knowledge. But I cannot read this tonight, as we witness the destruction of my home planet once again."

Joanna isn't sure how serious this breech of protocol is until she feels Linh tug on her sleeve.

"Do something!" she hisses.

"Like what?"

"Get another Vulcan. Someone who can make him stop!"

Sentek continues, his voice growing louder, harder. "Even now, as the Romulans gather their forces against us, we devote our time to studying ancient songs and poetry. Our way of peace brought us to the verge of extinction. So does logic not suggest that it is the wrong way? Does the Van-Kal t'Vokau not instruct us to judge them--"

Joanna's heart thumps in her ears as, conscious of being on stage, she walks to the edge and hops off with as much intention and dignity as she can manage. She knows something unpleasant is unfolding and has no idea how to prevent it.

The first person she sees is Jim Kirk, standing next to Admiral Pike. They must have arrived too late for a seat in the impromptu VIP section.

"Jo!" He gives her the abridged version of the smile that used to make her flutter when she was a teenager. "Not going how you planned, huh?"

"No! I don't know what to do--we invited him, but I had no idea he was gonna go off the rails like that."

She glances back at the stage to find that Sentek, by now, has warmed to his subject. "And yet our elders still wish to tell us what to do, as if giving us the same counsel will lead to another result. The truth is they have forfeited their authority--"

Jim pulls his comm link from his pocket and taps. A moment later, she sees Spock, seated in the front row next to Uhura, turn and meet his eyes. Jim doesn't respond over the comm, just gives a little jerk of his head toward the stage. Spock rises from his seat, unhurried, and joins his captain.

"Spock, looks like we've got a situation on our hands—what do you think we should do? Technical difficulties? Special guest speaker appearance?"

"I do not believe our intervention will be required, as the situation appears to have resolved itself."

Confused, Joanna turns back to the stage. Saiehnn has left her seat and approached Sentek at the podium. She calmly pulls him down to her level and whispers into his ear for a few seconds, his face going blanker and more stoic with each word. When she's finished, she glares at him down her aquiline nose until he returns to his seat.

"I respect your right to your interpretation of events, Sentek," she says aloud. "And yet I do not agree. You speak of the Destruction as if it were a consequence of Vulcan teaching, when it was nothing of the sort."

"What is she doing?" Joanna hisses.

"It looks like she's saving the show," replies Kirk. Spock tilts his head in agreement.

"Excuse me, but I've got to get back up there." She begins making her way back down to the stage.

"It may please us to see the judgment of history or the hand of Fate in these events," Saiehnn continues. "It may give satisfaction by confirming our biases, perhaps even assure us that no such thing can happen again. But it is not reality. And we must accept reality in order to go forward. That is our philosophy, nothing more."

There's no sound from Sentek or from the crowd; nothing but the harsh cries of a pair of gulls flying overhead. With perfect tactlessness, Linh bolts from her chair, tapping her chron. "Five minutes! Clear the stage and get the screen down!"

Kileia, who's been waiting with single-minded focus for her cue, hits a button and screen descends from its hiding place up in the lighting grid. In the lower left corner of the screen there's a countdown timer.

The image is faint and blurry at first, resolving into a clear image of the familiar 40 Eridani system, its trinary stars and three planets. Joanna can't identify Vulcan; the planets are no more than smears of light. She reminds herself that nothing is actually happening. It's a memory made manifest by the distance of space, a distance that the people around her, through the miracle of warp, crossed 16 years ago.

But none of that seems to matter to the audience. She sees Chekov and Sulu seated together in the third row, Sulu whispering something into his ear while his friend buries his face in his hands. Sarek looks unusually pale and Winona leans toward him a little, head at a wistful angle. Uhura glances back and forth between the screen, Spock, and Saiehnn with obvious concern. Admiral Pike leans over the edge of his antigrav lift to stroke the head of his old Golden Retriever with a steady rhythm, calming one or both of them.

Suddenly it feels real. Joanna gets some echo of what it must have been like on the bridge of the _Enterprise_, and it's terrifying: a planet is about to die and there's nothing she can do to stop it. She leaves her seat and half-stumbles off the stage, but no one is watching her. Their eyes are glued on the screen, none with more calm dispassion than Spock, whose hands are clasped behind his back as if supervising a demonstration during a lecture.

A hand falls on her shoulder, and without looking, she knows it's her father. He doesn't say anything, but all the same, she's grateful when he takes her hand in his, discreet between their two bodies.

This is the first time many of the younger cadets are directly confronted with the disaster beyond the formal analysis of events they learn in class. Unconsciously, they huddle closer together; Joanna notices a few of them sniffling or using their uniform sleeves to wipe at their eyes. A few of the older audience members stand up and leave, unable to sit through to the end.

Saiehnn discreetly takes the stage once again; she sits on a small stool positioned at one side. Joanna can't remember the name of the song she's playing, but a shudder runs down her spine as the first quivering notes issue from the strings and out onto the evening air. The lyre produces a warm, rich sound that hangs over them, both sweet and sad in equal measure.

Only one face is turned away as the clock winds down: Saiehnn's gaze is focused on the horizon, where Sol is setting behind the thin, slate-gray smoke of the incoming fog bank. The bright white dot burned onto the screen seems to swell a bit in its final moments, and for a second, Jo thinks that as long as Saiehnn continues to play, it might remain there forever. But the melody, along with the timer, marches steadily toward its predestined conclusion.

_three....two...one...._

And at zero, the light winks out.


End file.
